


The Song at the Scaffold

by lammermoorian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Art, Gen, and others - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 08:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16301441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: From Lothal to the edge of the galaxy, the story of Ezra's broadcast.





	The Song at the Scaffold

**Author's Note:**

> putting the mini in minibang!!!
> 
> i would like to extend HUGE ULTIMATE MEGATHANKS to my beta and my artist, lana and [jun](https://jun-c.tumblr.com/) (respectively), for a) putting up with my spastic bouts of inactivity and keeping me on track while i was off being a pretentious snit (irrespectively), and b) being amazing. LOOK AT JUN'S ART!!!! LOOK AT IT!!! I'VE LOOKED AT IT FOR FIVE HOURS NOW!!! and srsly shout out to lana for making sure my writing didn't veer off into the unreadable

"Kid - anything else?"

"Hmm?" With a static jolt, Ezra's focus snapped into place, and he looked up. "What?"

"Are we good here?" Zeb rumbled from above. "Because this thing's a lot heavier than it looks."

'This thing,' being his parents' old transmitter. From what Ezra could remember, it was old even when they first got their hands on it: a huge, clunky hunk of technology, but sturdy, reliable, and functional even during the worst of the summer blackouts, thanks to its dedicated power generator. Zeb had the transmitter balanced on one shoulder from his perch above the ladder to the basement, a couple lengths of cable coiled in his fist, and a look on his face that wasn't sour enough to hide the fleeting bit of worry that crossed it.

"Yeah," said Ezra, "yeah we're almost done, I just need..." He trailed off, dropping to his hands and knees, eyes searching in the dim light. There should have been a receiver, a pair of microphones, something else, anything else tucked away under the mixer, but Ezra couldn't see anything, couldn't remember what he had been able to sell for food, or what had been picked apart by thieves, only days after the arrest.

Up until he joined the crew of the Ghost, he hadn't been back to his parents' house in years, let alone into the basement. It wasn't exactly a nice part of town anymore, and besides, now that the Imps had tagged it as a 'known location of insurgent activity," it had been overrun with even more soldiers.

The last time he had seen this many 'troopers stomping around his home, they had already taken his parents away.

He closed his eyes and bit his tongue, willing the bad memories out. Jedi don't dwell on the past, right? Still, he couldn't bring himself to forget the few good memories of the place he had left. Sometimes, during cold nights in his tower or in long stretches of hyperspace on the _Ghost_ , he could remember curling up on one of the basement benches with an old winter coat for a blanket, propped up against a crate of random tech, and lulled to sleep by the steady, even cadence of his father's voice as he spoke. ‘ _And though we all feel the pain of Ryloth, we cannot allow ourselves to be blinded by our grief, for while we feel - they are the ones who know. The good citizens of Ryloth, of Lasan, of Mon Cala; they know all too well the cost of resistance and rebellion. To stand aside while they suffer for us is to turn our backs on our friends and our neighbors. We must stand together!_ ’

Ezra shook his head, blew out a breath. _Focus_ , said the voice in his head that sounded like Kanan. Okay. Focus. He was here for a reason.  
  
In a pinch, they could cannibalize a comlink for a mic, but if the frequency had been compromised, that ran the risk of an identifiable signature. For something untraceable, they needed a separate piece of equipment altogether. His parents had two microphones, one for each of them, but those would have been long gone by now. Thankfully, Ezra knew they always had backups. Now, where...  
  
"Don't mean to rush you," Zeb said, "but I'm pretty sure I can hear troopers clomping about."  
  
Hands on his knees, he closed his eyes and reached out. His father was the writer, the speaker, the voice on the airwaves, but his mother was the engineer, and despite his father's best efforts, his mother could never keep herself organized. In his memory, he saw again: boxes stuffed full of bits and pieces of metal, ribbons of cords left on side tables for weeks, half-assembled holo-transmitters tucked in with the utensils they used exclusively for meat, and down here in the basement, Ezra could almost see her crawling in next to him, taking his hand in her own callused one, slipping it between a pair of two cheap, empty plasteel bins, and his fingers outstretched and reaching, into the shadows, and his fingers brushed up against -  
  
"Ezra!"  
  
"Got it!" He scrambled out from under the shelf, knees aching, hand clenched around his prize. "Let's move!"  
  
Zeb was already at the front door, one ear cocked for armored footfalls. A quiet, tense moment passed in anything but silence - Ezra could hear the low, constant roar of Imperial machinery, the barking orders of officers, the pounding of his blood - then Zeb shouldered open the door as quietly as he could. _C’mon_ , said the silent jerk of his head.  
  
It was only much later after they had slipped out of the city, and as he followed Zeb up the ramp of the Ghost, that Ezra finally figured out what was wrong.  
  
The microphone, the key piece of equipment that he almost got arrested for, was completely corroded. The coil was rusted, the diaphragm broken - the only thing left was the magnet, and they had loads of those on board. “Karabast,” Ezra muttered.  
  
No external mic meant no signal protection. No signal protection meant that there was a strong possibility the Empire could track them in a heartbeat as soon as they went live, that they’d recognize the signal and send the Inquisitor after them, and Ezra could almost feel the cold veins of his fury and sick curiosity winding around his heart like chains -  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Ezra startled. He hadn’t realized Zeb was so close. “Um,” he stuttered, tongue heavy. “It’s nothing. Just. It’s nothing.”  
  
Zeb fixed him with another one of those not-quite-worried faces that made him itch all over. “You know you’re still not a good liar. Spill it.”  
  
Keeping things secret was bad for ops. He knew that. They all knew that. So why couldn’t he move his mouth? Why couldn’t he just come out and say it? “I - “ he swallowed. “The mic’s busted.” He lifted it up to Zeb’s eyes, a sad and paltry offering. As if this was all that he could provide. “The only thing left is the magnet. It’s totally useless.”  
  
Zeb whistled, lowly. “Well,” he said, mouth twisting, “guess we’ll have to make do. Come on.”  
  
“You boys back already?” Sabine’s voice called from the cockpit.  
  
“Coming up!” Zeb hollered. Then he stepped back.  
  
Right. Ezra had to go first. Ezra needed to go up the ladder first because he was carrying less equipment so he can help Zeb through. He had to go first and look Sabine and Hera in the eye as he told them all about how he’d failed them -

“Let me get the cords,” he said. At least he wouldn’t be going empty-handed. Zeb rolled his eyes, but obliged him.  
  
“Need a hand?” Sabine poked her head through the hole.  
  
“I’ve got it,” Ezra said, shouldering past her.  
  
“Oookay,” she drawled. “Zeb?”  
  
“Careful,” said Zeb, voice echoing in the hold. “It’s heavy.”  
  
Hera sat in the co-pilot’s chair, elbow in the dashboard as she cleaned it. One sticky key can mean life or death, she once told him, cheerfully. “That’s most of my job,” she had said, indulging his curiosity as he hovered over her shoulder, back when he had never even seen the inside of a ship before, “making sure that we run as well as we can.”

“Isn’t it hard?” he had asked her, wide-eyed.

She had grinned at him, joyful and savage all at once. “Not when you love it.”

She was distracted, today. “Everything go smoothly?” Hera asked, flicking a lekku in his direction  
  
He could feel Sabine and Zeb staring, burning a hole into his back. Ezra gulped, eyes fixed on the floor. “Uh, yeah. Mostly.”  
  
That got her attention. She turned to him, one eyebrow raised, mouth stiff. “Mostly?”  
  
“We got the transmitter. And the power cords. But…” _Breathe_ , said the voice in his head that sounded like Kanan, _just breathe_ . “It’s the mic. It’s broken.” The words came out of him like water. He still couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. “The coil and the diaphragm are completely gone - the magnet’s the only thing left.” Silence weighed on him, pressing in like gravity, and he cast his eyes up, ready to beg forgiveness, ready to beg not to be kicked out or left behind or - “Hera, I’m sorry - “  
  
“Is that it?” she said with a soft smile.  
  
He blinked. “Huh?”  
  
“Don’t worry about the mic.” She placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, eyes bright and easy. “We got the transmitter, right? We’ll make do with a comlink as we said originally.”  
  
“But - the Empire could track us - “  
  
“Then we’ll have to outrun them, I guess,” she shrugged, turning back to the console. “Head over to the galley, I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
Sabine tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got the spike set up.”  
  
Ezra didn’t follow, waiting for his heart to slow down. Hera hummed as she scrubbed at the console, offkey snatches of the Imperial anthem. “Where,” he swallowed, “where’s Kanan?”  
  
“He’s around,” said Hera, airily. “I think he’s meditating.” He waited for her to clarify, but she never did. “Meditating” could mean a lot of things, when it came to Kanan: he could be practicing saber moves, or searching his holocron for knowledge, or hiding himself from the world during what Hera delicately called his “bad days.” Or he could be actually meditating. Either way, who knew when he’d emerge from his cabin. Ezra was on his own, for now.

Heart still thudding with unresolved energy, Ezra turned, walking down the hall to the galley.  
  
Zeb had made himself comfortable there already, bo-rifle stripped in his lap, one leg braced against Chopper as the droid tried to steal his polishing cloth. Sabine, biting her lip, squinted in annoyance at her datapad, twirling the spike in her hand like a lightsaber of her own. She fiddled with a knob on the transmitter, then tapped at her datapad, frowning as it beeped angrily at her.  
  
Chopper beeped back at it, one manipulator waving mockingly.  
  
“Oh?” Sabine scoffed. “This thing is probably older than you. I’d like to see you try.”  
  
It was like time was stretched beyond perception. Ezra would swear that minutes, hours passed as Sabine wrestled with the transmitter, but every time he checked the chrono on the wall, it had barely been minutes. The symphony of beeps and whistles and turns of the wrench, of Zeb dragging the polishing cloth across metal, of the whoosh of the door as Hera came to join them, it swelled and swelled until, after the - tenth? Fifteenth? - last time the spike failed to sync, Ezra finally groaned in frustration, stalking over to the table and dragging the open hull of the transmitter over to him. “Let me.”  
  
It was like this: Ezra could see the transmitter, could see his hands upon it, and he could see himself, six years old and wide-eyed, sitting in his mother’s lap as she pried open the access panel. “See here?” she had said, taking his hand and guiding it to the wires. In the present, Ezra did the same. “That’s where your father’s voice goes,” she told him, following the path with her finger. “Here and here, and all the way over here,” and he felt for the receiver, something his mother had scavenged from work and smuggled home in her purse after the original receiver had nearly caught on fire. He popped the rusted door open, revealing the neat and orderly rows of circuits beneath. “And here’s where it leaves - then it travels through the air, like a little ship of its own, carrying your words over to the terminal - “  
  
“And since when are you a comms expert?” Sabine asked, arms crossed.  
  
The double vision cleared. He resisted the urge to wipe at his eyes. “My folks showed me,” was all he said, and Sabine wilted a little, before turning back to her spike.  
  
It was almost easy, after that. He remembered his mother taking him out to see the tower that would become his home, showing him the schematics that she had kept, even after it had fallen into disarray. “All broadcasting is the same,” she’d said, looking up to the sky. “The casing might be different, but the basic process stays constant.” Then she’d smiled at him, ruffling his hair. “Don’t forget - the easiest path is always the straightest one.”  
  
Time stretched again - or rather, it shrunk. By the time Ezra looked up, he could see the setting sun through the viewport of the cockpit. “I think I got it,” he said. “Sabine?” She handed him her datapad, wordlessly. "If this works,” he said softly, connecting a wire, “we should be able to use this to transmit directly through the tower."  
  
The door to Kanan’s cabin opened, finally. He looked confident, serene, with a half-smile on his face, and the Force surrounded Ezra like a soft blanket. "How we doing?"  
  
"Well,” Sabine chirped, sliding the spike into Chopper’s chassis. “Chopper has the spike. We get him into the tower and he can upload it right into the computer core from any terminal."  
  
The droid mumbled something too soft for Ezra to hear, but Zeb rolled his eyes. "Stop complaining, bolt-brain. You have the easy job."  
  
Kanan hummed. "What's the range of this spike?”  
  
Sabine smiled, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “As long as the tower is transmitting, we're good to go. Everyone will hear what we say. Well,” she shrugged, muttering drily to herself, “anyone who's listening." Ezra felt sick. People might listen - but would they do anything? Would they lift a finger to help them? Would they turn their backs on him and leave them to the mercy of the Empire, like they’d turned their backs on his parents? He swallowed bile, breathed in through his nose. He still felt sick.  
  
Kanan barrelled forward. "Good work. Then once the spike is uploaded, we'll signal."  
  
"And I spirit you away in the Phantom," chimed in Hera, waves of steadfast confidence rolling off of her like a Lothali beach at high tide, threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
"That's the plan," said Kanan.  
  
"And things always go according to plan, right?” said Sabine, with a teasing roll of her shoulders at Ezra. He couldn’t even bring himself to smile back.  
  
“She's right about that." he murmured.  
  
Kanan frowned. "What's with you?"  
  
"Nothing," he said, quickly. Not that it mattered, Kanan could probably read the anxiety radiating out of him like the back of an engine, could map him like a star chart, could see into his mind and look at all of his secrets and his fears, and the Inquisitor could rip him apart if he wanted -  
  
He quashed the thought as swiftly as he could, replacing tides of fear in his mind with the unbroken sway of grass. But Kanan was unconvinced. "Let's take a walk.”  
  
Not for the first time, Ezra hated the Force. It gave him away too easily. He breathed, like Kanan taught him - in through the nose, out through the mouth - then slowly, like someone who was marching to his doom, he shimmied out of the booth, scrambling down the ladder and slouching to the open cargo ramp.  
  
The sky, usually sickly grey with smoke and pollution, was soft and golden. The grass sea stretched on for miles, the mountains in the distance like ancient standing stones. He loved this place. He loved this planet, he loved the grasslands and the cities and the people and the animals - his parents had loved it, too. That was why they had stayed, when the fist of the empire came down on them, rather than emigrate again. It was why they spoke out, and it was why their voices were crushed, and they never got to see these skies or the mountains or their son ever again -  
  
The muffled sound of Kanan’s boots clamped up to him. “What's on your mind?" he asked, softly.  
  
"I'm not sure we should go through with this."  
  
Kanan sighed. "Ezra, you are up to this. I know you are." Usually so closed off, so reserved, he let himself open up in the Force, and Ezra could feel the pride flowing out of him, settling around his fingers and his bones, but it couldn’t chase the chill away. Not now.  
  
"I know that's what you want to think, but look: as much as I wish I was like my parents,” and he wished, oh how he wished he could be as brave and as strong and as determined as them, “I'm not." He wasn’t. He was a coward, and a thief, and he was unworthy to carry on their fight.  
  
Kanan was silent, for a moment. "There's something else." It wasn’t a question.  
  
“Be honest with yourself _,_ ” Kanan had told him, over and over and over again. It was the hardest lesson Ezra had learned so far, and no matter how many times he had been successful, the next time around was just as hard as before - maybe even more so, the truth stuck in his throat, building and building until the pressure burst and it all spilled out at once. "My parents spoke out,” he said, the words tripping over themselves, “and I lost them, and I don't - ugh!” he growled, frustrated. “I don't want to lose you guys, okay? Not over this!"  
  
“Hey,” Kanan said, firmly, “all of us have lost things.” _Don’t you think I know that?_ Ezra wanted to scream. The crew of the _Ghost_ had all lost families, friends, _worlds_ , and here Ezra was only worrying about himself. Again. “And we will take more losses before this is over, but we can't let that stop us from taking risks. We have to move forward.” He looked out, to the horizon, to the setting sun and the rising moons and beyond, and not for the first time Ezra wished he could share even an ounce of Kanan’s steadfast, unwavering faith in him. In them all. “And when the time comes, we have to be ready to sacrifice for something bigger."  
  
"That sounds good,” Ezra said, “but it's not so easy."  
  
"It's not easy for me either,” said Kanan. “My master tried to show me, but I don't think I ever understood it until now trying to teach it to you.” He chuckled then, fondly, but tinged with an old, quiet sorrow as well. “I guess you and I are learning these things together."  
  
They both looked out at the horizon. If the Force was trying to tell him something, he couldn’t sense it - he could barely sense anything over the thump of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears. There was no peace, no serenity, only the deep pit in his stomach that told him something terrible was about to happen.  
  
“What - “ Ezra swallowed, blinking the tears away, “what are you going to say?”  
  
“Hmm?” Kanan asked.  
  
“What are you going to say on the broadcast?”  
  
He hummed again, thoughtful. “Haven’t figured it out, yet. I’m sure it’ll come to me.” And then he smiled that wonderful, crooked smile, and Ezra could almost forget all his fears.  
  
But not quite.  


* * *

 

“Ezra!”  
  
Ezra could feel him still feel the sticky, viscous swamp of his fear, but it faded as the Phantom sped further and further away, he was fading, engulfed and overshadowed by the cold ice of the Grand Inquisitor, and he knew this would happen, he knew, knew the troopers would come for them, why couldn’t he have stopped it? Why couldn’t he have seen it sooner? How could he have left them behind?  
  
Someone shook his shoulder. “Ezra!” It was Sabine. Her helmet was on, but her hands were shaking as she grabbed him. “Ezra, come on!”  
  
He was drowning in it. The Dark side swarmed around him like a plague of loth-wasps, each raw moment echoed back to him with every muffled hitch of Sabine’s sobs, every clench of Zeb’s fists as he pulled himself back from running after them and tearing them apart, every time Ezra’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of Kanan in the hands of them - it threatened to suffocate him with every breath, as though the poisonous skies of Lothal were falling around him, crushing him -  
  
“Ezra,” came Hera’s voice, the sun through the storm. “Come on.”  
  
She led him to the galley, sat him down in front of the transmitter - this stupid thing that caused all this! If it weren’t for this hunk of garbage, Kanan wouldn’t be trapped, the Imperials wouldn’t have found them so quickly, and maybe even his parents wouldn’t have been taken away if they had just -  
  
Hera gently pried open his clenched fist, slipping the comm link into his hand. “You’re up. Sabine, check the spike.” He could only gape at her, mouth moving soundlessly.  
  
“Are you serious?” Zeb roared, fur bristling. “Forget the broadcast, we need to go after him!”  
  
“We are finishing the mission,” said Hera, in a tone that brokered no argument.  
  
“Hera,” and Ezra wanted to scream, but all that came out was a whimper - so much for Jedi training, so much for conquering his emotions and learning to be brave, and what did any of it matter anyway, if the Empire could rip his family apart on a whim? “Hera, I can’t.”  
  
“You have to.”  
  
“I - “ he gripped the comm link, feeling the edges cutting into his skin, and couldn’t summon a single word. “I - I don’t know what to say.”  
  
Her lekku were stiff and her hands were steady. She pinned him with a cold, steely look, mouth set in a determined scowl, and she reminded him of the Clone Wars vets that liked to hang out in Jho’s bar - haggard, tired folks with years of death in their eyes, the weight of a thousand worlds on their backs, stuck in the years that haunted them. “Figure it out,” she said. “We need you.”  
  
He blinked, eyes wet and foggy, and he saw in double vision again. “They need you, Ezra,” she had begged him, months ago in the belly of a Star Destroyer. “They need you right now.”  
  
His parents had needed him too, a lifetime ago, and he repaid them by standing by and doing nothing.  
  
“Spike is hot,” said Sabine in a small voice.  
  
No. The Empire would not take his family away again. Not this time.  
  
“Give me the comm,” he said. “I know what to say.”  


* * *

 

It was a normal day for Jho, out here in the middle of nowhere, except for how it wasn’t.  
  
His cantina was stuffed full of Imps, each of them glued to their comms or their blasters, some barking orders in between glugs of alcohol, some attacking their food with the same rage, Jho assumed, that they showed their enemies, and all of them glaring daggers at the locals who braved the wave of Imperials to have a drink of their own in their favorite local. At least the troopers weren’t taking out their frustrations on him.  
  
Yet.  
  
Still, he made sure to have the Holonet up and running before it got too crowded. Jho didn’t tangle with the wrong crowds - he kept his head down and his cantina running, just the way his father taught him - but he knew when and where to turn a blind eye, and how to put up just enough of a facade to keep his ass out from over the fire. More than that, he knew where to hide his listening devices.  
  
Yahenna Laxo was making himself at home in the corner where most of Lothal’s criminal scum did their business with each other, and in full view of the Imperials, too. At least it was him and not Vizago; though Jho couldn’t believe the Imps hadn’t picked Laxo and his pitiful crew up yet. If he had to guess, he’d say they were still dealing with the fallout of that whole Trayvis fiasco.  
  
If that damned, cowardly man ever set foot on this planet again, Jho would wring his neck himself.  
  
The man himself was on the Holonet now, pleading with the so-called “terrorists” to turn themselves in. “ _If I have ever misspoken, or misstated my intentions with regards to what kind of action must be taken, then I do humbly and deeply apologize. But to those rebels who terrorize our people and hurt their fellow citizens, I beg you to reconsider. The Emperor’s justice is swift, but his mercy is equally_ \- ” With a screech and a squeal, the Holonet broadcast cut out. Like the trained unit they were, every trooper’s head popped up in confusion, worried voices rising in sync to a low roar, until a louder one drowned them all out.  
  
“ _We have been called criminals, but we are not_ ,” came the voice of a child on the radio. “ _We are rebels, fighting for the people, fighting for you. I'm not that old, but I remember a time when things were better on Lothal_ \- “  
  
“Turn that racket off!” shouted one of the officers.  
  
“ _Maybe not great, but never like this. See what the Empire has done to your lives, your families and your freedom? It's only gonna get worse unless we stand up and fight back!_ ”  
  
The soldiers were standing now, bolstered by drink and by rage, hands going to blasters, but Jho, Laxo, the droids - they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. The voice was familiar, but - who? Who would be brave enough to hijack a comms tower? Who would be stupid enough?  
  
“ _It won't be easy. There will be loss and sacrifice - but we can't back down just because we're afraid. That's when we need to stand the tallest_ .”  
  
And the words - Jho remembered. Jho remembered ten years ago, the first faltering voice of freedom, pleading with their neighbors to wake up and look around, and he remembered the voices growing in strength until they were swiftly silenced. Mira and Ephraim had been good people, proud people.  
  
The Ithorian couldn’t smile, but his heart leaped as he finally placed the voice - Ezra. The Bridger’s kid.  
  
“ _That's what my parents taught me. That's what my new family helped me remember! Stand up together. Because that's when we're strongest - as one!_ ”  
  
As swift as a summer storm, or the flip of a switch, the broadcast ended. In the distance, Jho could hear a faint boom, like the crumbling of an ancient tower. Officers and soldiers and civilians stared at each other in a stunned, deafening silence.

With a scratch, the broadcast flared back to life. Partially. Tinny, canned jazz poured forth from the speakers, as the words _TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES_ and _PLEASE EXCUSE THE INTERRUPTION_ scrolled pleasantly across the screen.  
  
With all eyes on the screen above, Jho turned off his translator. “You get all that?” he asked one of the droids in muttered Ithorian. The droid beeped its affirmative.  
  
“Send it.”  
  
Where? The droid chimed in binary.  
  
“Everywhere you can.”  


* * *

  
  
“Sir? I think you need to hear this.”  
  
Bail, eyes bleary from hours of poring over data pads and coordinating drop-offs and covering trails to covering trails, lifted his head from where it was bent over his desk. “What is it, Lieutenant?”  
  
“It’s - it’s the Rodian, sir.”  
  
Ah, yes. The defector that Tano had picked up on Lothal. “Go on.”  
  
“Well,” the lieutenant shifted on his feet, boiling over with restrained energy, eyes wild with something like anticipation. “He’d been in one of his episodes - “ Tseebo tended to ‘shut off,’ for lack of a better term, from time to time, conscious enough for bodily functions, but not conscious, always looking off with his thousand yard stare - “and he woke up, suddenly, and pulled me out of my chair - started pulling up current Imperial comms, and sir, we’re talking double, triple encrypted transmissions, and - “ he stepped up, then, holding up a holoprojector, proudly displaying the Holonet symbol. “And he found this.”  
  
“ _I’m not that old_ ,” said the child on the Holonet, who was certainly not sanctioned by the Empire to speak, “ _but I remember a time when things were better on Lothal. Maybe not great, but never like this. See what the Empire has done to your lives_ \- “  
  
It hit him like a bolt from a blaster: Ezra Bridger. The Jedi padawan from Lothal that R2-D2 had shown him. The newest member of Tano’s Spectre cell. “Where is this coming from?” he asked, hushed.  
  
“We just intercepted this out of Kashyyyk,” said the Lieutenant, wide-eyed.  
  
Years of political practice were the only thing stopping Bail’s jaw from hitting the floor. “Kashyyyk?” There hadn’t been transmissions out of Kashyyyk in years - not even Imperial ones.  
  
“It’s coming from everywhere - not just Kashyyyk, but Garel, Mon Cala - “  
  
“ _\- be easy_ ,” Ezra chimed in, interrupting them. “ _There will be loss and sacrifice - but we can’t back down_ \- “  
  
“Those damn fools,” muttered Bail, smiling despite himself.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
This was their chance. Forget silence, forget secrecy - they had a chance to build, now, and Bail would be damned if he didn’t take it. “Strengthen that signal. Flood the channel.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“All of them.” Swiping his coat from his chair, he was already halfway out the door to his office, as he called back, “And notify Fulcrum!”  
  
Mon and Breha needed to hear this.  
  
And Leia. She needed to hear it, too.  


* * *

  
  
The cold sun beat down without mercy on the weathered walls of the holy city. Despite this, Chirrut still searched for it with useless eyes and a wandering heart, even as Baze scoffed at him.  
  
“Hope is like the sun, my old friend,” said Chirrut, smiling. “If you only believe it when you see it - “  
  
“Don’t quote that old riddle at me.” Chirrut laughed.  
  
It was a good day, despite the feelings of his somber companion. The soldiers had not disturbed the peace, the temple had been spared by the recent pirate attack, and no children had come to them complaining of wounds or hunger in nearly a week. And yet, something was here. Some presence had come to their little moon - something young, and fiery, yet old, and powerful. Strong with the force. He could hear it on the wind, almost, a soft cry in the night, cutting through the storm of the dark side.  
  
There.  
  
“ _W-we have been called crim-crim-criminals_ \- “  
  
“What is that?” he asked Baze.  
  
Baze was silent, for a moment, then he grunted. “Turn that up,” he said, not to Chirrut, but to the good proprietor of the cantina where Chirrut liked to loiter, liked to see the force of others and seek what he still knew could be found.  
  
Evidently, the owner complied, for Chirrut could hear it stronger, now.  
  
“ _We are r-r-r-r-rebels, fighting-ting for - rebels, fighting for the - for you. I’m-I’m-I’m - remember a t-time when things were bet-better on Lothal-than_ \- “  
  
Lothal. Chirrut did not know of it. And yet, the Force moved around the world, like a wolf protecting her cubs.  
  
“Who is this?” he asked.  
  
“Don’t know,” said the owner of the cantina, and Chirrut was sure he was shrugging. “Some kid in the Outer Rim hijacked a comms tower, beamed this out.”  
  
Baze grunted. “Dead fool.”  
  
He was probably correct in this regard - the Empire did not suffer dissidents lightly. Though, Chirrut was not so sure. If he turned inward, to the place where all sentients were the same, he could almost see with blind eyes, half a galaxy away, a pair of lights in the darkness of space.  
  
“ _Stand-stand up together-ether!_ ” pleaded the voice on the radio. “ _Because that’s w-when we’re strongest - as-as-as-as one!_ ”  


* * *

  
  
Silence in the cabin. The spike had gone dead.  
  
“Was it worth it?” Ezra asked, glancing up. No one answered. “Do you think anybody heard?”  
  
After a moment, Hera turned to him. Usually so buoyant in the Force, fiery and strong and passionate, Ezra could feel nothing from her but a horrible, vast emptiness. “I have a feeling they did.”  
  
“This isn't over,” he warned her.  
  
“No.” She didn’t smile. “No, it isn't.”  


* * *

  
  
“ _...what the Empire has done to your lives, your families, and your freedom?_ ” The tinny recording was the only thing to break the monotonous chorus of beeps and whistles, of threats from the guards and curses from the other prisoners. She used to live for these interruptions, for these reminders that time still yet moved, even within the walls of this prison. Now she couldn’t care less.  
  
Her husband laid his head in her lap. His ribs hadn’t healed yet, not since the last unsanctioned beating, and it hurt him to sit up. She carded her hand through his thick, dirty hair, and wished she could remember the song that they loved so much, the one that played in the bar when she first asked him to dance, all those years ago.  
  
“You hearin’ this shit?” came the grunt of a guard, bored as usual.  
  
“Hmm?” said his friend.  
  
“Listen.”  
  
“ _It’s only gonna get worse unless we stand up and fight back!_ ”  
  
His partner whistled lowly. “Where’s this from?”  
  
“Those rebels. From Lothal.”  
  
Like waking from a deep sleep, the world sharpened suddenly, and Mira’s ears focused on what she had just heard. _Lothal?_  
  
“Never heard of it,” grunted the trooper.  
  
“You remember,” said the first guard. “A couple months back. The main comm tower there - it blew up overnight. Said it was s’posed to be a construction thing.”  
  
“Huh. I guess.”  
  
“ _It won't be easy,_ ” said the voice on the radio. “ _There will be loss and sacrifice - but we can't back down just because we're afraid_ .”  
  
“Oh, I see,” said the second guard. “Those rebels must’a got a hold of the tower, sent this out - so Tarkin blew the thing himself.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
“Crazy man.”  
  
“ _That's when we need to stand the tallest_ .” There was something about this voice, something-something important, something shattering, something -  
  
“ _That's what my parents taught me_ .” It hit her. And it hit her husband, too. He sat up, pain forgotten, and turned to her.  
  
“Ezra,” they breathed.  
  
“ _That's what my new family helped me remember!_ ”  
  
He started to smile, eyes wet, lips wobbling. “He’s alive,” Ephraim whispered. “He’s okay.”  
  
“ _Stand up together,_ ” Ezra said, a million parsecs away.  
  
“He’s free,” she almost laughed.  
  
“ _Because that's when we're strongest - as one!_ ”  
  
For the first time in years, Mira smiled.


End file.
